


an office party, most foul

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Apple Bobbing, Fluff and Crack, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Prompt Fill, something silly and cute for my fav holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 11:24:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21298673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Edward has dreaded the Halloween office party for weeks, but if there is one perk to an evening of costumed co-workers, forced small talk, and a high intake of sugar and alcohol, it may be the night Edward finally asks Tom Jopson on a date.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 16
Kudos: 63





	an office party, most foul

**Author's Note:**

> pooraurora on tumblr sent me a prompt for joplittle and apple bobbing, and this is what became of it.
> 
> happy (late) halloween!

Edward has dreaded the office’s Halloween party for weeks. Part of him recognizes the absurdity of losing sleep over the mandatory BYOB policy, whether or not he would participate in the costume contest (for which George and Harry in HR thought a cafe gift card as the top prize would suffice), or — most daunting of all — whether or not he would use the awkward small talk of the party to finally ask Tom Jopson on a date.

Tom is inapproachable on an average day in the office; the man is always on his feet, on his phone, or glued to Mr. Crozier’s side. He is poised and professional, impeccably dressed, and, as far as Edward can tell, out of Edward’s league.

Still, Edward is not a sore sight himself, and after that fateful day when Edward and Tom shared the chore of cleaning up Crozier after a nasty bender, Tom has made a point of including Edward in his coffee runs, always sharing a wave and smile for him when he arrives in the mornings. Sometimes, there are lingering stares and once even a touch on his shoulder as Tom politely laughed at some inane thing Edward said. (Which he now cannot even recall, his memory honed in entirely on the sensation of the feathery light pressure of Tom’s palm through the fabric of his shirt.) 

As Edward catalogs each moment, his dread lessens more to a quiet nervousness, an anticipatory butterfly in his stomach as he takes the elevator to their floor, at a fashionably late hour.

What hits him first when he enters the space is the _smell_. He knows that HR did not follow Stanley’s suggestion for candles, so he assumes that the stench of apple and cinnamon and pumpkin comes from aerosol cans. His face itches from the cheap, fake blood he slapped onto his face, but between the bottle of cider in one hand and the fake chainsaw prop in the other, the choice to scratch his face is taken from him.

With the bottle held to his chest like a shield, he maneuvers the maze of costumed attendees, gaudy decorations, too many games involving darts or pins, a fog machine, and a big, watery tub of apples. Once he finds the drink table, he deposits the bottle, trying to not feel intimidated by the finer and more expensive choices surrounding his humble bottle of cider. Nearby, there is a large punch bowl of some dubious, neon green concoction. He ladles some into a cup, sips it, and nearly gags at the chemical lime flavor that hits his tongue. As he glares at the plastic cup in his hand, he wonders if it is too early and a social misstep if he poured from the bottle he brought himself.

He is still contemplating his options as he scans the opposite side of the room where the snacks are located. His mouth goes dry when he sees Tom. He’s leaning against one the tables, looking more at ease and in his element than Edward could even begin to manage. In one hand, Tom holds a glass filled with what looks like wine, and his other hand balances a plate filled with an impressive amount of sugar cookies and caramels. He is dressed as a vampire with a high-necked cape, tight trousers, and a billowing shirt — open with enough of a glimpse of his pale chest that Edward feels his face color.

He is currently speaking with Irving, who is dressed in a floor-length white robe with angel wings and halo to match. Whatever they’re discussing looks heated as Irving gesticulates strongly enough with his hands that the halo jiggles every time, ready to fall off his head at any moment.

_Okay, Edward, you can do this. You’ve played this out for days. Nothing bad will happen. He’s a friend. You’re friends. Okay._

Mental pep talk done, he downs the rest of his drink like a shot, immediately regrets it, grimaces, and, thoroughly braced and nauseated, he crosses the room to join Tom and Irving. Edward enters the conversation right as they are discussing—no, arguing—the hygiene and strategy of bobbing for apples.

“It’s really no worse than sharing drinks,” Tom says, sipping his wine as punctuation.

“Which is equally disgusting,” Irving insists.

“It’s just spit, John. Surely, you’ve snogged enough girls in your life to not be scared of _that_. Handsome fellow like yourself.” His eyes move pointedly up and down Irving’s get-up.

Edward feels a drop in his stomach, but judging by the open-mouthed, wide-eyed look on Irving’s face and Tom’s sly smile over the lip of his cup, the teasing was just that. Teasing, not flirting.

“Edward,” Irving says in a rushing exhale, as though his coworker has come to his rescue.

“Hello, Edward,” Tom says as he takes another sip. “Did you just get here?”

He nods, not trusting his voice. His free hand fidgets at his side; the other hand twitches inside the godawful cardboard chainsaw. He’s painfully aware of the slashes cut through his shirt that were absolutely deliberate and felt like a fantastic idea as he defaced the thrift store acquisition, but now standing by Tom and feeling his gaze, Edward feels ridiculous.

“Nice costume, John,” he manages, his eyes looking firmly at Irving’s feet before he manages to flick his gaze up to Tom’s. “Yours, too. It suits you.”

Tom smiles widely, enough so that Edward sees that he went through the trouble to attach fake teeth over his canines, sharpening them to thin points.

“Thank you,” he says with a little flourish with the cape. “And I like yours. It’s that…oh, what is that movie?”

“It’s—”

“Don’t tell me. It’s right there.” Tom frowns as he thinks. “The guy with the chainsaw arm and all the zombies. The ‘groovy’ guy. Oh, _Evil Dead_!”

Tom attempted an American accent on _groovy, _resulting in a twang more Mike Meyers than Bruce Campbell, but the effect is oddly cute. Tom’s enthusiasm is infectious, and Edward manages a smile and nod even as he resists the urge to excuse himself to the bathroom or back to the drinks table.

There is a pause in the conversation as Tom sets aside his wine to pick through his cookies. He is kind enough to hold the plate up, offering one to Edward (he’s quick to snatch the plate back when Irving perks up, showing interest). Edward takes a miniscule bite into the cookie. The icing tastes like its bright orange color, and he wishes he had something to wash it down.

“So, what about you, Edward?” Irving says, trying to bring the conversation back from campy 80's horror. “Don’t tell me you agree with Tom that bobbing for apples is…”

Tom interrupts, his mouth full of sugar cookie, “An ancient and fun tradition, enjoyed by all ages. And _not_ occultist, and _not _unsanitary. Jesus, John.”

Irving puffs up, like a disgruntled bird. The halo jiggles again. “_Historically_, it was used to divine one’s future spouse, so _yes_, occultist.”

Tom rolls his eyes, brandishing his bitten cookie, crumbs flying as he opens his mouth, ready to keep going.

Determined to end the argument and encourage Irving to go elsewhere, so he can speak with Tom alone, Edward blurts, “I’ve just never seen the point of apple bobbing myself. Seems awfully difficult.”

Tom’s head whips toward him.

_Oh._

That was also the wrong thing to say.

Without warning, Tom hands the plate of cookies to Edward and angles his face so he may put his lips to Edward’s ear.

“It’s all in the teeth, mate,” he says, his voice low and confidential.

With Tom leaned in this close, Edward can smell traces of the wine on Tom’s breath. In the back of his mind, he wonders how tipsy Tom is. Or if he really, truly, actually is this enthusiastic about _apple bobbing_.

“I’ll show you,” he announces as he marches toward the tub, “_Both _of you.”

George stands near the games’ tables where he doles out prizes and cheerleading in equal measure. He is dressed in a ridiculous giraffe costume, towering stuffed head and all. When he sees Tom, he grins, a look that must be mirrored on Tom’s face considering how utterly _gleeful_ George looks.

With a bravado Edward has never witnessed from the pristine and polished Thomas Jopson, Tom plants both arms on the side of the tub and juts his chin at George.

“I want to _exhibit_, George, friend, love,” he says, each word punched with firmness, the syllables slurring slightly, “to those two non-believers over there the art of apple bobbing. How it requires—“ He mulls over the words, sneaking a glance over his shoulder at Edward with a twinkle in his eye. “Expertise and a touch of refinement.”

George nods sagely, as though he, too, is privy to the sacred knowledge of apple bobbing.

“Righto,” he says a fake posh accent as he readies his stopwatch, “When you’re ready, Tom.”

Tom makes a show of removing the cape (_“I don’t want the collar to get in the way”_) before he clasps his hands behind his back and bends himself over the basin. George yells _go! _and Tom shoves his face into the water without a single care for his costume makeup or carefully styled hair.

Edward is too distracted by how tightly the fabric of Tom’s trousers clings to his backside to notice the small crowd that congregates near the games tables. The partygoers rustle and murmur among themselves, erupting into cheers when Tom flings his head back, apple proudly held in his mouth.

“Eight seconds, Tom!” George stares wide-eyed at the stopwatch in his hand. “That’s our best time yet.”

Water drips down both sides of Tom's neck, wetting the upper half of his shirt, and Edward feels lightheaded as he watches Tom run both hands through his hair, pushing the dark strands off his forehead. Tom plucks the apple from his mouth, wiping water from his cheeks as he sends a wink back to Edward. More guests move toward the tub, determined to challenge the apple bobbing champion, but Tom ignores them as he swaggers back to Edward with an exaggerated sway to his hips. He tosses Edward the apple who catches it. Barely.

“And that, gentlemen,” Tom says as he ties the cape and fixes his collar, “is how you bob for apples.”

Edward remembers to pick his jaw up from the floor, but not before Tom lets those impossible eyes of his rest on Edward for several long seconds. Irving is oblivious to the charged energy between them, as he crosses his arms and grumbles something about Tom being a show-off. Which, to be fair, is not entirely wrong. Edward looks down, swallowing hard.

“I can see you’ve practiced,” he says by way of compliment, instantly hating how stilted the words sound when they leave him.

Tom takes no mind and smiles as he accepts his plate of cookies back. He bites into a pumpkin-shaped sweet and once again holds the plate up to offer one to Edward.

“It still seems like a pointless and unhygienic practice,” Irving says.

Tom slaps Irving’s hand away when he tries to sneak a cookie off the plate.

“Get your own, John,” he says without any malice. “You’re just sore because of the time you upended the tub.”

Edward turns to stare at Irving whose face turns an impressive shade of red, perfect to match any bright autumn apple. Edward cannot help the smirk that grows on his face at the growing look of mortification on Irving and innocent satisfaction on Tom.

“That is certainly a story you’ve never shared, John.” Edward has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing as the color somehow deepens on Irving’s face.

Abruptly, Irving pats down the sides of his robe, as though realizing he had forgotten his keys or some other important item.

“I need to…” He starts, waffling and stumbling over his words. “I forgot that I need to… Excuse me.”

He hurries away in an awkward shuffle as the robe catches on his shoes.

Tom chuckles, but the sound dies as he sobers, his eyebrows raising as he shoots a questioning look at Edward.

“That wasn’t too mean of me, was it?”

Taken off-guard, Edward shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re capable of meanness, Tom.”

Tom hums, looking pleased by Edward’s answer. He nibbles on another cookie as he glances over the room and its occupants. Harry and Silna are sitting side-by-side on a couch, dressed in coordinating outfits as the couple from _101 Dalmatians_, their fluffy white dog lying curled up at their feet. Close by, dressed half-heartedly as a pirate captain, Crozier leans on a wall while chatting amiably with Thomas Blanky, whose idea of a costume is a bright orange t-shirt with a Jack o’lantern face painted on the front. Across the room, Edward spies Fitzjames and Dundy—in matching costumes of medieval finery—where they privately and giddily, like a pair of high school sweethearts, sway together in a slow dance to music only they can hear.

There is a mess of noise at the tub where Graham and Charlie are egging on Henry as he dives again and again into the tub, splashing water everywhere and missing apples all the while. George is laughing so loudly at the spectacle that he nearly drops his stopwatch as he bends over, clutching his sides.

Filled with a sudden burst of bravery, Edward turns his back to the room and faces Tom. It's almost private where they stand by the snack table. The lights are dim in this corner, and they are obscured partly by one of the office's massive fake ferns.

“Hey, Tom,” Edward says, his voice quiet and with more tremor than he wants.

Eyes gleaming and clear, Tom looks at him.

“Edward,” he says in the same conspiratorial whisper.

As Edward flounders, unable to dredge up the words, Tom deliberately and slowly takes Edward’s hand that holds the apple and brings it to the his lips. His fingers grip tight over Edward’s knuckles as he bites into the apple, never breaking eye contact.

Edward knows that the floor cannot and will not open up, swallowing him whole, but in that isolated moment, he swears the floor starts to swim and his knees wobble.

Tom pulls back, running a thumb along his bottom lip as he chews.

When Edward continues to gape in silence, Tom huffs and laughs, his eyes rolling fondly before he bumps Edward’s arm with his.

“I’m capable of much more than you give me credit, Edward.”

Adrenaline courses through Edward at those words.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks in a rush.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Perhaps it’s rude to leave a scant half hour after he’s arrived, but there are few things sweeter than saying a quick hello and goodbye to Crozier (who gives him a knowing look that both embarrasses and bolsters Edward), following Tom to the coat room, and standing close enough that their shoulders touch as they ride the elevator to the ground floor.

Outside, the moon shines brightly in a wide Cheshire grin, and a moaning wind passes by, scattering leaves and rustling tree branches. Edward shivers when the chilly air cuts through his layers, and he shoves his hands into his pockets.

Tom is turned away from Edward, looking toward the street, where the pavement is dotted with the yellow glow of street lamps. Tom peers over his shoulder, a mischievous slant to his eyebrows. The ridiculous collar from his cape pokes past the collar of his coat, and he uses the effect to perform a cartoonish rendition of an undead seducer, complete with a clumsy Transylvanian accent.

“Where to now, Edward Little?”

There is an incredulous silence before they dissolve into a fit of giggles. Tom leans heavily on Edward as both men catch their breath.

“There’s a good curry house not far from here,” Edward manages to say after recovering.

“Lead the way.”

They leave part of their costumes and props in the backseat of Edward’s car before heading down the sidewalk, walking close enough that their elbows and hands keep brushing. Tom leans his head on Edward’s shoulder, and after a second’s hesitation, Edward wraps his arm around Tom’s waist.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you out for a while,” Edward says as he stares up at the starry night sky, the words almost muted by another crowd of costumed revelers passing them across the street.

“Certainly took you long enough,” Tom says lightly.

Startled, Edward looks down in time for Tom to catch his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he presses a chaste kiss to the corner Edward’s mouth.

“Lucky for you, I enjoy being chased.”

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://whalersandsailors.tumblr.com)


End file.
